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COLLECTION 



OF 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



AND A 



v^(£>IlkI^^(BIB (£>IBii^I!:^^<d 



BY ROBERT M. MONTGOMERY. 



PITTSBURGH, 

miNTED BY ALEXANDER JAYNES. 



1835. 



PREFACE. 



This is not a publication. Only a few copies of this 
collection have been printed, exclusively for distribution 
among the friends of the author. It would be manifest 
injustice to regard these poems critically, as the finished 
productions of a matured intellect, claiming the notice 
of the public. They were the mere playful ofF-flowerings 
— the divertive exercises of an untrained fancy, affording, 
only by snatches, the evidences of its native power. Not 
so much allowance should be claimed for the circum- 
stance of his youth, as for the absence of the inspiring 
excitement of literary ambition and responsibility, which, 
though it tames feeble minds, is always necessary to 
rouse the energies of the powerful. 

As this is not intended for the public, no apology can 
be needed for the many careless passages it contains; 
and no comment is necessary to satisfy the candid judge 
that its amiable author possessed, naturally, a rich fancy, 
and true poetic feeling. No attempt has been made to 
amend a single line; because, as the collection is in- 
tended merely as a memento^ or keepsake, among the 
author's personal friends, it is presumed that they would 
be best pleased to have it as it is, every word purely his 



IV PREFACE. 

The author, Mr. R. M. Montgomery, was born in 
Pittsburgh, on the 27th of November, 1815, and re- 
moved with the family to their present residence, in 
Ross Township, in the year 1823. Havfng an inclina- 
tion for literature, he was placed in the Western Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania, where he pursued his studies 
with uncommon success, under the Rev. Doctors Black 
and Bruce. 

He would have graduated in June last, (1834), but a 
severe cold, which commenced in the preceding winter, 
began towards spring to show symptoms of a dangerous 
pulmonary affection, and obliged him to discontinue his 
collegiate studies. In the hope of restoring his health 
by the influence of a southern climate, he set off in 
April for New Orleans, and from that place went to 
Charleston, South Carolina, but returned to Pittsburgh 
in July, little, if any better. 

He had engaged to study law with W. Forward, Esq., 
but, on account of his feeble health, made no regular 
commencement. He continued, however, to write for 
the Pittsburgh newspapers; and during that interval of 
study many of the pieces in this collection were pro- 
duced. 

He remained in that way, slightly employed, until the 
election in October, when exposure to the damp air on 
the election night, and fatigue in walking home, brought 
on an alarming increase of the pains in his breast, and 
other symptoms of consumption. However, being na- 
turally fearless, he did not submit to the direction of his 
physician very implicitly. His strength was not much 



PREFACE. V 

wasted — he was even able to walk about the day before 
he died. The immediate cause of his dissolution was 
the bursting of an abscess in the lungs, which seemed to 
suffocate him. He departed this life at five o'clock on 
the morning of the 27th of October, 1834, with his mind 
unimpaired, and resting in the hope of a blessed immor- 
tality. 

His generous, affectionate, amiable disposition; his 
cheerful and serene temper; his inoffensive, exemplary 
conduct; his high intellectual gifts, and still more ex- 
alted sense of honor and duty, surrounded him with 
many friends, who will not readily forget the "loved 
and lost." 



JMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



On the Death of John R. Rosehurgh, M. D. 

'Tis done! the fatal shaft its course has sped, 
And thoa art hurried to an early tomb: 
'Tis past! and thou art number'd with the dead, 
And sorrowing friends lament thy youtliful doom. 
Hard was the fate that snatch'd thee thus away, 
Amid the flow of youthful hopes and joys, 
Whilst yet the world and all its scenes were gay, 
Ere age had come, when earthly pleasure cloys. 
Thou'rt gone, alas! thy spirit-stirring lyre 
Is motionless, and all its chords unstrung; 
Whilst tears for thy sad fate my muse inspire, 
And sorrow gives my mournful words a tongue. 
Torn by the tyrant dread from living hearts. 
Thy manly, graceful form now mould'ring lies; 
Death sought a victim for his wily arts. 
And boreiAee to the grave, a noble prize. 
Bright were thy talents, generous thy heart, 
Thy soul was open, social, and sincere, 
Prompt to assist, and triendly to impart. 
By all thy friends wert ever held most dear. 
But thou art gone, what boots it what tliou wert? 
Thy body mingles with its kindred clay; 
But still thy memory's green within my heart. 
And will remain until my latter day. 



10 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

THE SEA-BORN SAILOR'S GRAVE, 

Oh! bury me not in the cold, hard earth, 
But consign my dead form to the wave. 

For ott have I wish'd that the place of my birth, 
In death, should afford me a grave. 

A hammock's the couch upon which I was born, 

The cradle that rock'd me to sleep, 
And be it, when closes life's turbulent storm, 

My coffin, when plung'd in the deep. 

My ship is the spot where my life has been pass'd, 

My bark has been ever my home, 
From hence, when life's anchor forever is cast, 

May I find out a watery tomb. 

The ocean's my country, my king is — my God, 

No country, no king, else, I own, 
I would not be buried beneath their green sod. 

Or have plac'd o'er my tomb their cold stone. 

I would, that no landsmen's salt tear should be shed, 
When this wearisome life-voyage closes, 

That the sea-gull might flap his broad wing o'er my 
head, 
Where the lone, sea-born, sailor reposes. 

Then bury me not in the cold, hard earth, 
But consign my dead form to the wave. 

For oft have I wish'd that the place of my birth, 
In death, should afford me a grave. 



THE FORSAKEN. 

Nay, name him not, or let his name 
With reverence be spoken. 

My heart for him beats still the same, 
Though he that heart hath broken. 



MISCELLANKOUS POEMS. 11 

Those vows of love, vi^hich ofl his tongue 

With seeming ardor swore, 
I knew not then, for I was young — 

Were light as idle air. 

Those loving words, which from the heart 

Seern'd breath'd in accents kind, 
I knew not — for I knew not art — 

Were false as fleeting wind. 

Ofl when our lips have met, to glow 

In one sweet lingering kiss, 
I fondly thought I still should know 

Uninterrupted bliss. 

Oft when he to his heart me press'd, 

In one fond close embrace, 
Me thought that still within his breast 

My love would find a place. 

I vainly thought his guileless heart 

Was stranger to deceit; 
Alas! experience did impart — 

What she shall ne'er repeat. 

But name him not, or let his name 

With reverence be spoken, 
My heart for him beats still the same, 

Though he that heart hath broken. 



DEATH. 



What is't of death to hear — 

'Tis but to learn 
Some soul has lefl life's desert drear. 

Ne'er to return. 

What is't on death to look — 
'Tis but to see 

OK 



12 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

Life's pupil lay aside his book, 
From 's sad task free. 

What is't of death to taste — 

The hapless wight, 
Who treads all day some weary waste, 

Finds rest at night. 



THE POET'S DIRGE. 

I've tasted of life's waters, rare, 

Swift rolling down time's tm-bid stream, 

And find that all its pleasm'es are — 
Not what they seem, 

I've drunk at the Pierian fount, 

Nor found its waters please the taste; 

I've vainly scal'd Parnassus' mount, 
And found it waste. 

I've tasted, too, at love's fond rill, 

Where who'er drinks the draught repeats, 

'Twas vain, I have discover'd still 
Bitter its sweets. 

I too of pleasure's bowl have quafF'd, 
But I have ever quafF'd in vain, 

For sorrow, mingled with the draught, 
Turn'd joy to pain. 

r eep have I drank; must I still drain, 
Ev'n to the dregs, misfortune's cup? 

I cannot (overwhelm'd with pain) 
Longer bear up! 

Now let me drink of Lethe's stream, 
Forget the joys that once I knew. 

Then let me close life's cheerless dream, 
Wept but by few. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 13 

THE HERO OF BLACK-ROCK. 

[A new Song to an old Air, by Major Jack Downing, of Down- 
ingville. down east, author of "Hail to the Chief," and many other 
patriotic effusions, dedicated, without permissioii, to that valiant, 
magnanimous, puissant, 6c^/igcreiit, and fte//ipoteut Kuj'nel, James 
Scott, of Elizabeth township, Allegheny county, now a Member 
of the Pennsylvania Legislature, and ■whilom Capting of the 
'^Round Hill Hornets.'"'^ 

"When wild war's deadly blast" began 
To speed its fury forth, 
And Britain's hireling troops o'erran 
The forests of the North, 

A valiant "Capting," wise as bold, 
Who never fear'd a scar, 
A soldier brave in peace, we're told, 
A citizen in war. 

His men to famous Black-rock led, 
His country's foes to fight; 
But when he to the battle sped, 
Bethought himself of flight. 

In quarrying he did not delight. 
His sword he never drew; 
"Let bears and lions growl and fight^ 
For 'tis their nature too." 

He call'd his men around their chief^ 
Upon a stump he sprang; 
And then he made this very brief, 
* But eloquent, harangue. 

" Be resolute, my men," he said, 

" Fight not, but rather flee; 

" And when you from the field have fled, 

" I will not backward be." 

When hearts for strife no longer burn'd, 
But all was peaceful now, 



14 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

This chief triumphantly return'd 
With laurels on his brow. 

Think not those services, so great,. 
Have pass'd without reward; 
He's now cmploy'd to legislate, 
His country's laws to guard. 

Here he has quite as useful prov'd, 
And shown to all who doubt, 
From Elack-rock had he not remov'd, 
He ne'er had lived to spout. 

Long may he live, his friends to aid, 
And to his foes ne'er yield; 
And may his laurels never fade 
In cabinet or field ! ! ! 



THE CHOLERA. 

There came a voice on the sweeping blast, 

From the gloomy halls of death. 
And the fearful shrieks that arose in haste 
From the groaning earth, as the sound swept past, 

Spoke a dreadful tale of wrath. 

On the raven wings of death, despair, 

The death-sped herald, came, 
Tinging with pestilence the air, 
As he scattered his arrows every where, 

With deadly impartial aim. 

Time, rushing on with thrice swift wing, 

Vainly strives to match his speed; 
Close in his train he terror brings. 
And slaughter his stern requiem sings 

O'er the heaps of fallen dead. 

The crowds on whom his mandate fell, 
To prepare for their long last home, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 15 

Have hardly time to bid farewell, 
• Ere, with scarce the form of funeral, 
They're hm-ried to the tomb. 

The nurse, that sits by the patient's bed 

To close the dying eyes, 
Scarce (when each ray of life has fled) 
Performs this duty for the dead. 

Till, convulsed, she groans and dies. 

The friend who follows, with sorrowing tear, 

To its last and humble home. 
The corpse of one he held most dear. 
Returns but tlie pangs of death to share, 

And be followed himself to the tomb. 

The lovely bride, with happiness bless'd, 
Is snatched from her bridegroom's arras; 

Not long is rack'd with the torture his breast. 

He mourns her not long, for soon he's at rest 
Where silent are sorrow's alarms. 

Kind friends who but for the moment part. 

As oft they have parted before, 
Now separate with a sorrowing heart, 
('Tis a painful thought that causes the smart,) 

They may chance to meet no more. 

As he rushes on in his swift career, 

Like the ocean's tempestuous wave. 
The nations are seized with a mad'ning fear. 
And the earth is drench'd with many a tear, 

As millions are swept to their grave. 

Philanthropy looks on the dreadful scene, 

And heaves from her bosom a sigh; 
While pity beholds it with sorrowing mein, 
And fain from her gaze the sad prospect would 
scretm. 

As she wipes the fresh tear from her eye. 



IG MISCELLANEOUS P0E3IS. 

THE CAPTIVE MINSTREL. 

They bid me sing- a pleasant lay, 

To merry tune to strike my lyre; 

Alas! what thought or feeling gay 

Can harsh captivity inspire. 

My harp that, 'mong my native hills, 

My native airs vi^as wont to sing, 

That oft beside the murm'ring rills 

Was heard to sound with lightsome string, 

Alas! as motionless, its chords 

Refuse to give th' accustom'd sound; 

No wonted skill my hand affords 

To strike my harp on foreign ground. 

Go bid the imprison'd linnet sing, 

She may forget the green-wood tree. 

Yet will to minstrel's memory cling 

Remembrance that his harp is free. 

But set me on my native shore, 

Fetters and bondage left behind, 

Then forth I'll joyous music pour, 

And fling gay numbers to the wind. 

But bid not, here, sing pleasant lay, 

To merry tune to strike ray lyre, 

Alas! what thought of feeling gay 

Can harsh captivity inspire. 



GOD ABOVE. 

When far from friends, and far from home^ 

And far from all we love, 
This hope remains, where'er we roam, 

There is a God above. 

Though pestilence around us rage, 

And soul? in death remove, 
This comfort can our fear assuage. 

There is a God above. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 17 

GOD IN HEAVEN. 

Though pain and sickness on us prey, 

Our frames with pangs be riven, 
This thought will drive despair away, 

There is a God in heaven. 

When death itself at last draws near, 

Hope from our breast were driven, 
Did not this comfort then appear, 

There is a God in heaven. 

Throughout my life, upon my hearf 

Let this be still engraven, 
Ne'er from my memory depart, 

There is a God in heaven. 

Oh let me but this truth apply. 

This comfort grand be given. 
To cheer me when I come to die, 

There is a God in heaven. 



AN EPITAPH. 

Is there a self-conceited fool, 

Who erst was taught in virtue's school, 

But recklessly brake ev'ry ruk 

By wisdom taught, 
Here pause, at death's dread vestibule, 

Survey this spot. 

Is there a man, to whom heaven sent 
Her gifts, and in profusion lent 
Proud talents, but who all mis-spent, 

Here contemplate. 
While feeling's voice can yet have vent, 

A brother's fate. 

Is there a man, whose strength of mind 
Could others teach the way to find 



18 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

True wisdom's path, yet staid behind 

In folly's train, 
Stop here, and learn, what heav'n designed 

Must firm remain. 

The silent dust, that lies beneath, 

Might once have striv'n for virtue's wreath. 

But chose to spend his fleeting breath 

In pleasures vain, 
Pleasures that never can bequeath 

Aught else than pain. 

Who e'er surveys this grassy heap. 

Know this, whilst wisdom's path you keep. 

Nor deign on folly's couch to sleep, 

You're safe alone. 
If not, you must expect to reap 

Where you have sown. 



TO MISS J. A. 

'Tis not thy dark and sparkling eye, 

Beaming with lustre bright, 

That from the bosom draws the sigh, 

And captivates the sight. 

'Tis not the lovely rose's tint 

That glows upon thy cheek, 

'Tis not the lilies with it blent 

That all thy charms bespeak. 

'Tis not the beauteous smiles that play 

Around thy coral lips. 

Where Cupid, jealous of his sway, 

His god-like nectir sips. 

Through charms that meet the outward gaze 

The soul reflected shines. 

And there has beauty left her trace, 

Engraved in fairest lines. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 19 



JUST NOTHING AT ALL. 

A wise man's follies ai-e anatomized, 

Ev'n by the squand'ring glances of a fool. 

I Shakspeare. 

Old Shakspeare says that all the world's a stage, 

And all the men and women merely play'rs. 
You'll find, the phrase holds good in ev'ry age; 

Each century part of the drama shares; 
The saint, the sinner, hero, fool, and sage. 

Each plays his part, and each his burden bears, 
'Till from the stage of life at last he's hurl'd: 
"It takes all kinds of folks to form a world." 

The noisy hero, fuming struts and swears. 

The pining lover sighs Ms act away. 
The pious parson's scene 's made up of pray'rs, 

The toper drowns in wine his, little day. 
And hero, lover, toper, priest, each wears 
The dress that suits the part he has to play; 
And like all actors, some their parts sustain 
With honor great, whilst other merit blame. 

We find they are some too, who better please 

In pantomime than any other guise. 
And verily Pope speaks truth when he says, 

^^Act well your part, there all the honor lies, 
"O, my Antonio, I do know of these 
That therefore are only reputed wise, 

For saying nothing." 'Tis Ben Franklin's rule, 
"Hold fast your tongue, and none will caH you fool." 

"But hold! now have you rhymed a long while, 

And yet advanced no further in the matter 
Which you have ta'en in hand. Digression's vile; 

Pursue your tale, and cease to lavish satire, 
You need not hope to gain one friendly smile 
'Till you have ceased such rank abuse to scatter; 
Besides, (I pray you keep him back no later,) 
His patience gone, yom- hero has turn'd waiter." 
?.* 



20 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Now prythee have some patience, gentle reader; 

I pray you give me time to moralize, 
(And then, my muse, I would not wish to jade her. 

She wont submit to force in any wise; 
I cannot drive her, so I'm forced to lead her. 
And when she falls must give her time to rise.) 
For, to insert a tale without a moral. 
Is worse than without wind to end a quarrel. 

"But what have you to do now with morality? 

Morality has nought to do with you; 
Grown tir'd of wandering, like Old Mortality, 

And holding the dead's virtues up to view, 
She's left (it is indeed the dire reality) 

The world at large to mingle with a few — 
Receiving of the world's gifts a satiety. 
Sloe's now confined to the young men's society." 

Society! what, not a secret one 

I hope — Morality must secresy hate; 
Beside, all kinds of secrets have begun 
To be detested by the world of late; 
Ev'n Masonry her course has nearly run, 
A few short years will place her out of date. 
"No, I assure you, as I am a true-man, 
'Tis full of anti-masonry as — woman." 

As woman! why, my friend, if it were so. 

We long ere this had heard some of their doings. 
"Why certainly, when they begin to do, 

The world at large will hear their infant mewings; 
They sure have generosity to show 

Their fellow-men the end of their reviewings — 
Beside (when will this conversation end) 
You certainly do quite forget the Friend." 

The Friend! who's he? "/i is a weekly paper, 
Design'd to bless and moralize the age. 

It shows how vice you may with ease escape her; 
Philosophy shines bright o'er ev'ry page; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SI 

('Twill answer too betimes to light a taper) 

Cramm'd full of learn'd research and counsel sage — 
And then, you know, ev'n to a potent king, 
A 'Friend' in need 's — a very useful thing." 

I think 'tis time we ended this discussion; 

I'm sure it is becoming rather stale, 
'Tis very strange such foreign stuff will rush in 

To interrupt the progress of my tale — 
But tell me, reader, don't he need a cushion, 
Who e'er is forc'd to ride upon a rail? 
"Why-yes-but what would you infer from thence?" 
Why, sir, it helps the rhyme, if not the sense. 

There was a time (but hold, I wont essay 

To catechise my betters, times will alter — 
Ev'n /have seen great changes in my way — 

Fortune may change sometimes, and who would fault 
her, 
You know that "ev'ry dog must have his day," 

And those who think her firm have sore miscall'd her; 
My motto is, enjoy her while you may.) 

I say there was a time when Byron sung, 

"But break my heart for I must hold my tongue." 

But stay, I've written now a dozen stanzas. 

And it is time that I should end my canto — 
Now reader (if I have one) whate'er man says, 

In praise or dispraise (I don't mean to vaunt tho',) 
Of this my rhyme, in which no great offence is, 
I disregard, and ever after mean to. 
In aflertime I will resume my lay, 
Farewell, until we meet "some other day." 



THE POET'S DREAM. 

'Twastlie lone hour of midnight, when darkness profound 
The face of all nature in gloom had enchain'd, 



22 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

When mankind in the fetters of slumber were bound, 
And silence in grandeur and solitude reign'd. 

My head on my soft downy pillow I laid, 

And courted that soother of sorrow, repose, 

Strange fancies and dreams to my mind were display'd, 

And visions of darkness unnumber'd arose. 



THE HORN OF THE ALPS. 

(The Alpine horn, besidts being used to warn the shepherds to 
recall their flocks from the pastures in the evening, is also used 
to proclaim from the highest mountain the hour for devotion, 
and, at the time for retiring, is heard pronouncing a social "good 
night" to all.) 

*Tis sunset, and Phoebus' last lingering ray 

The mountain top tinges with generous glow, 
His shorn beams portend the departure of day. 

As he gilds with refulgence those peaks wrapped in 
snow. 
All labour, beneath, in the valleys, has ceas'd. 

The shepherd's wild horn the glad hour has told 
When all may retire, alike, man and beast, 

The shepherd to his cot, and the beast to his fold. 
But hark! that horn's wild note has burst Ibrth again. 

The music is heard from the crag's highest peak. 
But more grave in the sound, and more solemn the strain, 

More attentive each shepherd to what it may speak. 
Now swift on the wings of the fleet mountain gale, 

Is convey'd to the ear of each list'ner the word. 
And slowly and softly resounds through the vale 

The solemn injunction of "Praise ye the Lord." 
From his cabin each shepherd the welcome sound greets, 

As those accents sublime over the valley are pour'd; 
And each from the door of his cabin repeats. 

The solemn injunction of "Praise ye the Lord." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 23 

From crag and from mountain, from cliff and from rock, 

Where often in strife have elements warr'd, 
From steeps which have often endur'd the storm's shock, 

Is re-echoed the sentence of " Praise ye the Lord." 
The latest faint murmur has died on the breeze. 

And silence again has resum'd her calm sway, 
With uncovered head now all sink to their knees. 

And in silent devotion their orisons pay. 
'Tis nightfall, and darkness has coverM the earth. 

The towering mountains are veil'd from the sight, 
The sound of the horn has again broken forth, 

Pronouncing a peaceful and social " Good night." 
Each shepherd in peace to his cabin retires, 

Now sweetly and calmly betakes him to sleep. 
Whilst hope with this surety his bosom inspires, 

That God in his slumbers him safely will keep. 



INSCRIPTION I. 

Come haste to my treasury, haste with thy mite. 

An offering friendship demands. 

And justice as strongly enforces her right 

To receive such a gift from thy hands. 

I ask not thy silver, I scorn the base pelf 

Which for many a monument rears; 

I ask but a token for memory's shelf, 

A memento for fiiture years. 

O let me not ever implore thee in vain, 

Some affectionate token leave here, 

That long may engrav'd on my mem'ry remain. 

And long to my heart may be dear. 

Fair, fair is the altar that friendship erects, 

There affection and love often blend; 

Sweet, sweet is the image that fancy reflects 

Of a much lov'd, but far distant friend. 

Then haste to my treasury, haste with thy mite. 

And leave there some tribute behind. 

That years yet to come, in their burdensome flight. 

May not banish thy form from rny mind. 



24 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

INSCRIPTION II. 

Come twine a wreath for friendship's brow. 

And cull the flow'rs with care; 

Come all whose breasts with fervor glow, 

Come all whose hearts can feeling know, 

The pleasing task to share. 

Come twine a wreath without delay, 

And friendship's brow adorn; 

Come all who own her scepter'd sway, 

Come^all who bask beneath her ray. 

Or for her absence mourn. 

Come twine a wreath, and twine with haste. 

Fair friendship's brow bedeck; 

Come all who feel her passion chaste, 

Come all who long her sweets to taste, 

Submissive to her beck. 

Come twine a wreath, a wreath entwine. 

And deck fair friendship's brow; 

Let wit and sentiment combine. 

And all the social pow'rs divine 

Before her altar bow. 



INSCRIPTION III. 

I come to every friend sincere, 

To crave a gift of love, 

A gift to friendship's bosom dear 

All other gifts above. 

The treasure bright I do not ask 

That Peru's mines afford, 

Be it alone the miser's task 

The glist'ning coin to hoard. 

I ask the treasures, brighter far, 

Which feeling minds bestow; 

I seek those sparks which, ever fair, 

In social bosoms glow. 

In after days, whilst mem'ry gleans, 

From off each well stor'd page, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 25 

Remembrance fond of happy scenes 
That smoolh'd life's chequer'd stage. 
When years revolving, onward pass, 
And hearts asunder end. 
Reflected full, of fancy's glass, 
Will stand each valued friend. 



INSCRIPTION IV. 

My mistress sends me forth to seek 

A boon from every gen'rous hand, 

Affection's off'rings to bespeak. 

And gifts of friendship to demand. 

I've swiftly on my errand come. 

To bear the grateful tributes home. 

She bade me say, "The busy bee 

Employs each bright and sunny hour, 

In gathering sweets from ev'ry tree, 

And sipping from each humble fiow'r. 

Still anxious, ere the summer's o'er, 

Wisely to hoard her winter store; 

And she would wish to imitate 

The prudence of the humble bee. 

And carefully accumulate 

Some treasures for futurity; 

And ere life's genial summer's spent. 

Secure, for future years, content." 

She bade me say, "Fond memory's charms 

Are pleasing to each guileless heart." 

She bade me ask, "That friendship's germs, 

For memory's use, you would impart, 

So that each friend (tho' absent) dear 

May have a kind memento here." 



My task is done, my message told, 
And have I importun'd in vain? 
4 



36 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Shall you be thought to feeling cold? 
And I, denied — return again? 
Nay, trace a line without delay. 
My mistress' thanks will you repay. 



TO MISS R. A. W. 

My harp has long been stranger to my thrall, 
In vain have I invok'd my idle muse. 

Still listless, heedless of her master's call, 
She dares my earnest summons to refuse. 

Wake, wake, my muse, resume thy wonted lay; 

Now let thy slothful slumb'ring have an end; 
Regain once more thy long neglected sway, 

And pay thy tribute to a valued friend. 

Let others arrogate the right of age, 

Let others stain thy sacred album's page 

With flattery, harsh to ev'ry feeling heart, 
And oft told counsel to thine ear impart; 

'Tis not of me thy friendship to abuse. 
Or with presumption vain thee to offend; 

But yet hope still whispers thou wiit not refuse 
The heart-felt wish of one who is thy friend. 

May all the blessings heav'n has in reserve 
Be shower'd in plenty on thee from above. 

May providence thy guileless heart preserve 
From cruel pain of dieappointed love. 



THE ROSE. 

As the tint of the rose bud, when dripping with dew. 
Presents all its beauties more fair to the view; 
So the eye of sweet woman more lovely appears. 
As, beaming with beauty, she smiles through her tears. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. '27 



FRIENDSHIP. 



O say not friendship's but a name, 

An idle tale for fancy's ear; 
O say not friendship has no claim, 

No pow'r the feeling heart to cheer, 

E'en when the heart is full of joy, 
When ev'ry thought is free from care, 

The sweetest pleasures soon will cloy. 
If it no friendly bosom share; 

But when the heart o'erflows with grief, 
When passions strong the bosom rend. 

How sweet (we feel) is the relief, 
The consolation of a friend. 

But sweeter far the feeling is. 

It tells us of the joys above, 
Yes, sweeter far — the heav'nly bliss 

Of friendship melting into love. 



THE POET'S WREATH. 

Twine not for me the laurel wreath, 
Pluck'd from the verdant bough, 

That crown let victory bequeath 
To deck the warrior's brow. 

Twine not the myrtle wreath for me, 

Betok'ning tender love. 
No more the jealous god's decree 

My vacant heart can move. 

But twine, oh twine the cypress wreath, 
The willow wreath prepare; 

Well suits the coronet of death 
To deck the brow of care. 



28 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



TO MISS M. A. L. R. 



Full many a hand on thine album's fair page 

May leave the impressions of friendship's bright seal; 
Full many a heart its best feelings engage, 

And many a bosom its best thoughts reveal. 
Here fancy her wreath of sweet roses may twine, 

To encircle with pleasure thy sensitive heart; 
Here sentiment tender and wit may combine 

The gifts of affectionate breasts to impart, 
And oft, as the years in swift progress advance, 

Leave many a mark of their passing behind. 
Thine eye with delight o'er those pages will glance. 

And recall ev'ry once valu'd friend to thy mind. 
At those moments of joy, in those periods of bliss, 

Whilst memory points to thee others more dear, 
O grant my request — I ask only this — 

Bestow one kind thought on the friend who wrote this. 

Then, lady, farewell, may prosperity shine^ 
To gild with contentment thy roseate hours; 

May the pleasures of hope and of mem'ry combine 
To strew thy fair path with their numberless flowers. 



LOVE. 



When true love tender bosoms feel, 
And with the spark celestial glow, 

In vaij? the tongue strives to reveal 
The joy alone the heart doth know. 

That heart love's passion never knew, 
That could in words its tale impart; 

O never doubt the tale is true 

That comes half utter'd from the heart. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 29^ 

A DREAM. 

A dream of ray childhood, when life's opening bud 
Imbib'd all the freshness and sweetness of spring; 
When the sunshine of fortune was free from each cloud. 
And my heart was untouch'd by adversity's sting, 

Methought that my days, then so tranquilly gliding. 
Would changeless flow on through the course of my life; 
Methought that my time, free from sorrow and chiding, 
Would pass away fearless, and careless of strife. 

A pleasing illusion, soon doom'd to destruction, 

See stern disappointment awaiting my fall; 

Alas! baseless fabric, of fancy's erection, 

In the day of sweet childhood, now gone past recall. 

How soon those bright fancies, so dear to my heart, 
For ever were hid from my sorrowing view; 
Though lingering long we were forced to part. 
Fond dream of my childhood, for ever adieu. 



THE WISH. 

Grant me, ye powers, nought else beside 

A wine cup and a lass. 
Cheerfully then, whate'er betide, 

My happy hours will pass. 

Let fortune on me smile or frown, 

'Tis all the same to me; 
Then I can all my sorrows drown, 

And happy live and free. 

This life is but a fleeting dream, 

Our hours pass swift away; 
Let us improve the present time, 

And live while live we may. 



3d MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Then here's to thee, refreshing wine, 
And here's to thee, my fair; 

Take all the rest, these two be mine, 
For nothing else I care. 



ORATION ON HISTORY, 

DELIVERED IN THE 

WESTERN UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 



To admire that which is good, and to hate that which 
is evil; to aspire after virtue, and to shun vice, are prin- 
ciples, by nature, deeply implanted in the breast of man. 
If our minds are uncontaminated by the ills of life, unless 
our reason has become sophisticated by false ideas, and 
until that faculty which enables us to distinguish be- 
tween right and wrong becomes fettered by reason of 
our passions, we are ever anxious to explore the mines 
of history, and search the records of ages, in order to see 
what we may find in the events of nations or the actions 
of men to cheer us in the pleasant ways of virtue, and 
teaeh us to avoid the thorny paths of vice. With his- 
tory as our guide, we travel back, along the resistless 
stream of time, to the dark ages of the past, ruminate 
among the ruins of cities long since crumbling into dust, 
and hold communion with the mighty dead. We con- 
template with silent awe the rise and fall of empires; we 
behold them, like a stately pyramid, towering beyond the 



32 ORATION ON HISTORY. 

clouds, seeming to woo and kiss the very heavens, defy- 
ing the tempest of time, and laughing to scorn the shock 
of ages, and anon we see them tottering on their bases, 
and falling with a tremendous crash, or divested of every 
thing which rendered them grand and beautiful, they re- 
main, like the ancient tower of Babel, a huge mis shapen 
mass, for years an impressive monument of the vanity 
of all earthly things. Nation succeeds nation; throne 
gives place to throne; one generation passeth and another 
Cometh; one race retires, to mingle- with the clods of the 
valley, and another stands in its room, each affording to 
posterity the opportunity of profiting by its example. — 
Let us consider for a moment the history of ancient 
Greece, the land on which the rays of science first burst 
with all their glory; the land where Socrates and Plato 
taught, where Homer and Pindar sang, where Leonidas 
bled; the cradle of heroes and the sepulchre of kings. — 
Let us view with pleasure her rising grandeur, rejoice 
at her glorious career, and weep at her decline. Let us 
contemplate the character of her great men, her heroes, 
her poets, her orators, and her kings; view the reckless 
career of her Alexander, carrying his devastating arras 
over every land, enriching its soil and coloring its 
waters with the blood of its inhabitants, calling himself 
a god, and aiming at universal sway: well would apply 
to him the language of the poet, 

*' Weak man, 
Clothed in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic pranks before high heaven, 
As make the angels weep." 



ORATION ON HISTORY. 33 

Or, if our heart sicken at the bloody scene, let us turn 
from it to one better calculated to arouse the noblest 
feeling's of patriotism; let us view the noble Spartan, at 
the head of his little band of warriors, engaged in 
glorious combat with thousands of his enemies, contend- 
ing against overwhelming numbers, disputing inch by 
inch, and finally blocking with their dead bodies the 
Straits of Thermopylae. Let us turn from their more 
vigorous forms of government, and consider the milder, 
but still firm laws of the sage Solon; wander we to tlieir 
capital, and, winding among the ruins of Athens, let us 
bend our steps to her towers and temples, and there, 
seated upon the base of some Corinthian pillar, now 
prostrate in the dust, imagination will picture her sages 
engaged in canvassing the affairs of state; to fancy's ear 
will be conveyed the graceful and soul stirring eloquence 
of Demosthenes; and that voice, long since hushed in the 
silence of death, will reverberate among the ruins. But 
where is Greece now^r-alas! ancient Greece is no more: 
that soil, which was once pressed by the footsteps of free- 
men, is now trodden by slaves; those harps, which were 
once wont to stir up all their energies, and brace their 
nerves for war, are now prostituted to the base song of 
the bacchanalian. The voice of her orators is dumb, and 
her sons are sunk into a nation of menials. Oh, how 
the mighty are fallen! But she has not existed in vain, 
whether we view her in her ascending greatness, or 
when she had attained the summit of all earthly perfec- 
tion, or a3 she is now, prostrate in her ruins. Whether 

5 



34 ORATION ON HISTORY. 

we view the events of the nation herself, or the actions 
of her great men, we may learn a sound moral lesson. 

Glide we a little further down the stream of time, till 
we arrive at days of the city of the seven hills, imperial 
Rome. See her at one time the city of refuge for the 
robber and the outlaw, see her rapidly emerging from the 
clouds of obscurity, lengthening her cords and strength- 
ening her stakes, until proudly unfurling her banners in 
the face of nations she declares herself mistress of the 
world. She too had her poets, for who does not take 
pleasure in reciting the sweet pastorals of her Virgil, 
and poring over the odes of Horace. And who, in peru- 
sing the bursting and overpowering eloquence of her 
Cicero, will doubt that she gave birth to orators? She 
was also the mother of heroes. We view with wonde*" 
the glorious victories of her Csesar, bearing his all-con- 
quering arms over land and sea, and planting the impe- 
rial eagle upon the ruins of the thrones of empires; but 
ail our admiration turns to detestation when we see him, 
by crossing the Rubicon, declaring war against his own 
country, and carrying rebellion into the heart of his native 
land; and we almost applaud the rash but patriotic blow 
that rid Rome of a tyrant. 

But where now is the Imperial City? Where now 
are all her glories? we scarce can find her tomb. — 
Where now are the statesmen whose eloquence was 
wont to make the Forum resound? Where now are the 
generals, whose task was but to come, to see, to conquer? 
— Where are they now — and echo answers, where?— 



ORATION ON HISTORY. BS 

From her history we may learn that when, like her, we 
lose sight of liberty, that polar Btar that guides as 
on to greatness, we deserve to have a place among 
the things which hav« ceased to be. But why do we 
look back so far through the vista of years, and search the 
history of nations almost shrouded in oblivion. The 
history of the nations now in existence, and the biogra- 
phy of their great men, is pregnant with interest and 
improvement. From the history of France we may 
learn that licentiousness is not liberty, that anarchy is 
not republicanism. We may learn much from her sons, 
if we wish to imbibe the talents of her Voltaire and Rous- 
seau, while we avoid with instinctive dread the rock on 
which they split. Among her heroes may be ranked the 
man whose name and fame have spread over every land, 
and whose fate was intimately connected with the events 
of the principal nations of Europe, the Emperor Napo- 
leon. By nature formed for a warrior, he early devoted 
his talents to those studies which rendered him the 
greatest general the world ever saw. Rapidly rising in 
the scale of fortune, he trod over the necks of his ene- 
mies to the throne: the kings of the nations only existed 
in his smile; empires were the things of his creation, and 
crowns the baubles which he tossed from his hand. Mas- 
ter of every thing but himself. But if his ascent was 
rapid his decline was much more swift. If the summit 
to which he attained was lofly, the height from which 
he fell was fearful. But if we view him descending, like 
the genius of war, upon the desolate plains of Austerlitz 
or watching with anxiety and regret the flames of Mos- 

5* 



36 ORATION ON HISTORY. 

COW, or if we view him upon the fatal battle ground of 
Watterloo, we admire his courage, while we detest his 
ambition. We feel enraged at the inhuman treatment he 
received from the British government, and his unjust 
imprisonment in the isle of St. Helena. But does not 
every bosom glow with honest hatred against the man, 
maugre all his talents,whoas the hired tool of a British min- 
istry, attempted to make black blacker, and to cast a fouler 
stain, upon the already blotted page of the character of a 
man, who notwithstanding his faults, is dear to the heart 
of every American. But there is another of her heroes, 
inexpressibly and deservedly dearer to our hearts, the 
man who, leaving all his honour, all his wealth, in his 
native land, flew to the aid of a nation, struggling to free 
herself from the yoke of a tyrant, embarked all his for- 
tune in her cause, and aided in repelling the proud inva- 
ders from our shore; surely if there be one seat in our 
affections higher than another, it should be filled by 
Lafayette, 

But what shall be said of Britain, now perhaps the 
greatest nation of Europe. Her history alone would 
employ the pens of thousands of historians, and the 
tongues of a thousand orators; to enumerate her great 
men, or to recount the events of her story, would require 
the skill of more than mortal man. By the achieve- 
ments of her Nelson, and her hosts of other naval com- 
manders, she is represented as bearing away the trident 
of Neptune, and proclaims the proud motto, Britania 
rules the main. On account of the genius of her Shak- 
speare, her Byron, and her Scott, she is truly called the 



ORATION OM HISTORY. 37 

land of poets; her statesmen are among some of the 
wisest, and her orators among the most eloquent. She 
has afforded more encourag-ement to the sciences, and 
produced more great men in her time, than all the rest 
of the world together; in short, as it respects commerce, 
trade, literature, and the fine arts, Britain may be 
said to have borne the palm of victory from all her com- 
petitors. But she too has her faults: the tyranny which 
she exercises over her vassals, and the iron rod with 
whieh she rules her subjects, are revolting to the feel- 
ings of every republican. We behold with feelings of 
resentment her rich grinding the faces of the poor; we 
see with indignation the birth-proud nobleman lording it 
over his plebian countrymen, and regret that Britain is 
a monarchy. But let us look at the bright side of the 
picture, and feel disposed rather to praise and emulate 
her greatness than to disclose her faults. 

Read we the history of Ireland, and upon its pages, 
stained though they be with the blood of her sons, and 
blotted by the tears of oppression, names and events 
will be found there recorded that would reflect honor 
upon the history of any land. Yes, that little island 
poor and despised though it be among the nations of the 
earth, has produced some of the choicest spirits who 
ever visited our globe, has given birth to men whose ac- 
tions have cast new lustre upon the pages of history. — 
Who has not applauded the noble patriotism of her Em- 
mett, and wept at the story of his martyrdom. Who 
has not perused with pleasure the sweet and pathetic 
effusions of her Moore, or who has not appreciated theora- 



38 ORATION ON HISTORT. 

tory of her Curran, her Grattna, her Burke^ and her 
Phillips? And where is the heart that would not cheer, 
where is the hand that would not strike for Ireland, 
were she to arise to assert her rights and shake off the 
yoke of oppression? 

Look we for deeds of noble patriotism, and of daring 
in behalf of liberty, perhaps we may not find a brighter 
example than the patriots of Poland, headed by their 
illustrious leaders, and Kosciusko, in their late attempt 
(yet fresh in our memories) to free themselves from the 
burden of their task masters. But though they failed 
in the glorious undertaking, they are not prostrated 
forever; the torch of liberty kindled in America is spread- 
ing its rays far and wide over the nations of the earth. 
A spirit of freedom is now going forth through every 
land that will one day cause the hearts of tyrants to 
quake, and the thrones of despots to totter. 

But we turn from a review of the history of the na- 
tions of Europe to one, we trust, more grateful to the 
hearts of all present, the history of our own happy coun- 
try; and we may find something interesting and commen- 
dable even in the character of the inhabitants of this land 
before the white man's prow first touched the red man's 
shore. They were a generous and hospitable people. — 
Though they are considered as savages, roaming free as 
the desert air, and unmindful of the hand that had made 
them, they were not destitute of their own peculiar reli. 
gious principles; they heard the voice of the great spirit 
in the rolling of the thunder, and saw the light of his 
eountenance in the lightning's flash; and they in the 



ORATION ON HISTORY. 39 

hour of death long to join the deceased hunters and 
warriors of their nation, in the happy hunting grounds 
that lay beyond the grave. Who has not read with plea- 
sure the tales of their noble chiefs, and listened with 
delight to the story of Pocahontas, interposing her beau- 
tiful form between the head of the white man, and the 
impending blow? It was the white man first taught 
them the passion of revenge: robbed of the hunting 
grounds transmitted to them by their forefathers, to 
what could they resort but revenge? No wonder they 
wished 

*' To spoil the spoiler as they may, 
And from the robber rend his prey." 

But it was not intended by that power who orders all 
things aright that America should be forever the abode 
of uncivilization. The rude and unlettered savage, as, 
wearied with the chase, he leaned upon his unstrung 
bow, and gazed with silent apathy upon the transparent 
waters of the beautiful Ohio, little thought that that 
stream, then flowing smoothly on through vast and 
almost impenetrable forests, would soon be made subser- 
vient to the use of civilized man, and be made to bear up- 
on its bosom the wealth of thousands of enlightened 
beings; little did he conceive that those woods and rocks, 
whose echoes had long been undisturbed by aught save 
the shrill scream of the mountain bird, or the howling 
of the beasts of the forest, would be made to re-echo 
the mirthful song and the cheerfiil laugh of the boatman 
as he plied his craft along the river's winding track.-— 



40 ORATION ON HISTORY. 

The genius of civilization, seated upon the rock of Ply- 
mouth, cast her eagle eye toward the west: as the snow 
disappears before the rays of the sun, the gloomy forests 
vanished at her glance, and populous cities arose in their 
stead. America stood forth the home of freedom, an asy- 
lum for the oppressed. Let us pass speedily over the 
lesser events of her history. See the infant colonies 
rising in strength daily, and increasing in wealth, until 
their riches excited the cupidity of the mother country; 
She endeavored, by heavy taxation, to wrest from them 
the hard-earned reward of their labours; and upon their 
refusal to pay, she sent her hireling soldiery to enforce 
submission upon the rebels. Then came that eventful 
era in the history of America, than which, perhaps, we 
might search the records of ages in vain to find a more 
glorious — the American Revolution. Upon the memo- 
rable plains of Lexington was shed the first blood in the 
defence of our liberties. That spark caused the whole 
train, which had been laid from Maine to Georgia, to 
explode. The cloud of war, for some time impending, 
burst with all its fury. The nation arose unanimously 
to assert her rights — and she triumphed. Since that 
eventful period, America has taken her seat among the 
nations of the earth. But while we record that memo- 
rable transaction, let us not forget the debt of gratitude 
we owe to the memory of the man, to whom, under 
providence, we may ascribe the gaining of our liberties. 
The man who led our armies forth to battle, and con- 
ducted their retreats. Who plunged into the hottest of 
the fight, and, protected by all unseen but out-stretched 



ORATION ON HISTORY. 41 

arm, returned unscathed; and who afterwards hved to 
bear the highest rule in his native land, and to estabUsli 
the work which was begun. His name will never be 
forgotten. Mothers yet unborn, will teach their babes 
upon their knee to lisp the name of Washington. Pro- 
fiting by the example of the nations which have preceded 
her, America has brought her system to that degree of 
perfection, that she may unhesitatingly lay claim to the 
title of the only republican government on earth. And 
if we, as a nation, continue in the paths which we have 
entered, we may still hope to remain what w^e are, a 
happy and independent people. If, on the contrary, we, 
like Rome of old, forget the exalted station on which we 
stand, we shall, like her, perish. If we, as individuals, in 
perusing the biography of the great men whose names 
have brightened the pages of history, endeavor to search 
out all things, and hold fast that which is good, strive to 
emulate their virtues and shun their vices, we too may 
have our names trumpeted by fame, and handed down to. 
the remotest periods of posterity; if not, tJie blame be 
upon our own heads, if — 

Doubly dying, we go down 

To the vile dust from whence we sprung, 

Unwept, unhonor'd, and un3ung. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Continued from page 30. 



THE STRANGER'S GRAVE. 

'Tis midnight now, and hush'd is ev'ry sound. 

The scene around is clothed in deepest gloom; 

All nature now is wrapt in sleep profound, 

The air is silent as the solemn tomb; 

Save when the gentle zephyr softly blows 

Among the whisp'ring foliage of the trees, 

But scarcely can disturb their deep repose. 

By the sweet murm'ring of her cooling breeze. 

Here in this spot, oft trod by careless feet, 

The stranger's dust lies mingling with the soil; 

They lie unnotic'd by the passing great; 

Long since forgotten 'midst life's busy toil, 

They lie enchain'd in silent sleep profound. 

Their memory from oblivion's sh^de to save. 

No friendly hand uprears the grassy mound, 

No vestige marks the lonely stranger's grave. 

Perhaps, if happy and secure at home. 

Their lives 'mid peace and plenty had been spent. 

Friendship had strewn with flow'rs their peaceful tomb, 

Or fame had rais'd the beauteous monument. 

But chill misfortune on their prospects frown'd, 

Robb'd their fond breast of ev'ry valued friend. 

The silver cords snapt which to life them bound. 

And brought them to their sad and lonely end. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 43 

Ceased in their breasts life's renovating tide, 

And unlamented in this spot they lie; 

Strangers, and in a foreign land they died, 

Without the tribute of a single sigh. 

Stranger! What man but shuns that cheerless name? 

What man but dreads, 'mong crowds, to be alone? 

A stranger, on the world's wide busy plain, 

To be without a friend, without a home. 

But yet, to ev'ry philanthropic breast, 

That name is fraught with tenderness and care; 

It strives to calm his troubled soul to rest, 

And from his bosom pluck the thorn, despair. 

With sympathy it soothes his dying breath. 

And when life's last faint flick'ring ray is spent, 

When his clos'd eye is seal'd in silent death, 

It o'er his tomb pours forth its last lament. 

Sleep on in peace, sleep here at last secure, 

You this alone sad consolation have — 

Against misfortune, death can close the door; 

Oppression cannot reach beyond the grave. 

Perhaps, by some chance turn of fortune's wheel, 

He who now pens these short and simple lines 

May soon, alas! himself be made to feel 

Sufferings like yours, in far, far distant climes. 

Perchance, bereft of ev'ry once lov'd friend, 

A houseless wanderer in a foreign land. 

May there too meet his sad, untimely end, 

Receive his burid from some stranger's hand. 

Perhaps, in some such plain, neglected spot, 

His silent ashes may unnotic'd lie, 

And never cause a sad or serious thought 

In the cold breast of the chance passer-by. 

But if such painful destiny should e'er 

This soul, now buoyant with fond hopes, befall, 

Oh, may philanthropy there drop a tear, 

\nd dark oblivion shield him with her pall. 



6* 



44 UISCKLLANEOUS POEMS- 



THE GRAVE. 

Upon the surface of this fleeting earth 

How differently the lot of man is cast; 

Fleeting indeed! no mark of worldly worth 

Can stand the shock of time's death-sweeping blast. 

Some, with the aid of fortune's prosp'rous gales, 

Glide smoothly on along the stream of time; 

Others, with not a breeze to catch their sails, 

Strive, with vain toil, to reach a happier clime. 

But there's a spot where all at last must meet; 

Nought from its cold embraces can them save; 

The low, the proud, the humble, and the great, 

All travel on toward the silent grave. 

What boots it, whether with the proud array 

Of funeral pomp they're carried to the tomb, 

Or not one friend laments o'er their cold clay, 

Or follows them to their last humble home'? 

The grave's the sStne, if o'er its well-shap'd mound 

The marble tower and the cypress weep; 

Or, scarce distinguish'd from the plain around, 

If marks the spot but one rude grassy heap. 

In vain the warrior strives death to withstand, 

His shield no more can ward the fatal blow; 

His useless sword drops from his nerveless hand, 

He falls a victim to mankind's dread foe. 

The statesman's cunning and sagacious wiles, 

Against his shafts no opposition prove; 

Maugre his studied and deceitful smiles. 

He to the grave must soon, alas! remove. 

The miser's gold can no redemption bring. 

His glist'ning coin their owner cannot save; 

He, too, must feel death's sharp and bitter sting; 

He, too, must drop into the cold, cold grave. 

Death is insensible to beauty's charms, 

His ruthless breast no tender feeling knows; 

Upon the most symmetrical of forms 

The grave will soon its mournful portals close. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 45 

Upon their tomb may rest the marble pile, 

Rear'd by fond friendship to departed worth; 

And elegy strive, with assiduous toil. 

To make their names live after them on earth. 

But there's a sparkling pearl of mem'ry's wave, 

That flings those short-liv'd honors to the wind, 

The glorious halo that surrounds the grave 

Of the blest benefactor of mankind. 

His monument needs not the sculptor's art, 

His fame no written elegy requires; 

His name's engraven on his country's heart, 

His memory lives long after he expires. 



MIDNIGHT. 

I love the lonely midnight hour, 

When wearied nature sinks to rest, 

And man's resign'd to slumber's pow'r, 
Sweet soother of the troubled breast; 

Whilst the cool breeze that trembling sings, 

Seems like an angel's whisperings. 

'Tis in this solemn, silent hour. 

My wandering thoughts delight to rove, 

And in the shades of fancy's bower. 
Hold converse sweet with those I love; 

Whilst mem'ry's faithful pow'rs attend, 

Recall to mind each valued friend. 

Fond recollection views the past. 

And clothes it with a thousand charms; 

A halo bright around is cast. 

That woos it from oblivion's arms; 

Whilst prospects clear their influence lend. 

And with the past the future blend. 

Along the brink of memory's stream. 
Shades of departed friends do glide, 



46 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Like the faint outlines of a dream, 

Their vision'd forms not long abide; 
But as they swiftly onward pass, 
Reflected are in fancy's glass. 

Rememb'rance, too, of childhood's years 
Casts o'er my soul a fond regret; 

Rememb'rance of my childish fears 
And joys, I never can forget; 

I never can, while mem'ry gleans 

One token of those happy scenes. 

But of those forms that friendship's seal 
Engrav'd upon my social breast, 

Of all that mem'ry can reveal, 
One angel form excels the rest; 

O, may that form be ever near. 

To calm my soul, my heart to cheer. 



HOPE. 



Cast on this life's wide desert drear, 

His path beset with deepest gloom, 
Man struggles on, a prey to fear. 
Without one smile his way to cheer. 
Or smooth his passage to the tomb. 

Till hope's bright seraph form appears, 

To light him on his weary way. 
She soothes his sufF'rings, dries his tears. 
Dispels his dark and gloomy fears, 
With her serene and hallowed ray. 

Tost on life's stormy, troubled main, 

No compass points the track to steer, 
A prey to ev'ry tearful pain. 
That follows close in sorrow's train, 
His eye discerns no harbour near. 



MISCELLANEOUS FOEUS. 47 

Hope, like a clear resplendent star, 

Sheds a bright lustre o'er the wave, 
Her smiling ray beams from afar, 
To break those clouds his course that mar, 

And snatch him from a watery grave. 

Cheerless, indeed, must be that breast, 

A prey to ev'ry sorrow vile; 
That mind can never be at rest. 
That soul can ne'er with peace be blest, 

Hope never visits with her smile. 

In youth's bright and refulgent morn, 
Hope shines forth like the mid-day sun; 

Youth's buoyant breast laughs grief to scorn. 

Its happy hours of sorrow shorn, 
Seem immortality begun. 

And ev'n life's low, declining vale, 

Hope's smiling ray doth oft illume; 
When all the charms of mem'ry fail, 
Hope only tells a pleasant tale, 

And points to bliss beyond the tomb. 

But when death's dreadful hour is nigh. 
What else the parting soul can cheer? 

Hope can the sting of death defy, 

Hope bids all gloomy horrors fly. 
And strews with flow'rs the lonely bier. 



TWILIGHT. 

Delightful hour, above all others sweet, 
Thou casts a smile serene o'er nature's face; 
When day and night, like fond twin sisters meet, 
And blend together in one warm embrace. 



48 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

JUST NOTHING AT ALL. 

<*Abook, a book, although there's nothing in it."— B«/ron. 

I want — I want — I do not want a hero, 

Therein I differ from a better poet, 
(Who wrote some time ago — about the year — O, 

What year was it? Well, I do not know it.) 
So I'll go on, and if I find the era. 

You may be sare I will not fail to show it. 
The bard whom I refer to, is Lord Byron, 

Whom many a moralist has spent his fire on. 
I do not wish to contradict, God knows. 

Nor yet impose on others my opinion — 
But sentiments, at least — as I suppose — 

Are always free from tyranny's dominion. 
Great men, as well as others, have their foes; 

(Indeed, a friend you'll find it hard to win one,) 
Weak-minded fools, who still profess to hate, 

And scorn the man they cannot emulate. 
There are a set of self-conceited wights. 

Who fain would pass for very learn'd reviewers; 
Who never judge a bard by what he writes. 

Forsooth, because he's rank'd 'mong evil-doers, 
And they've heard said, in mischief he delights. 

He must, of course, be one of scandal's sewers, 
And thus speak counter to what christians own, 

"The tree is judged by its fruit alone." 
'Twas thus Lord Byron's writings were discuss'd, 

By fools, who taste and judgment both did lack; 
But did they hurt him? They but scour'd the rust 

From his steel pen — for soon on satire's rack 
They found, (the fact's by friend and foe confess'd,) 

They but prepar'd a rod for their own back. 
From fools so mad, from critics so carnivorous, 

Our prayer is, Do thou, O Lord, deliver us. 
"But what does this digression mean?" say you; 

"When you commenc'd you made a dev'lish clatter; 
Methought you wish'd to tell us something new. 

Now pray relate what is this wond'rous matter. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 49 

You said you wanted somethings, it is true, 

And will this want your very project shatter?" 
Now, reader, let not your impatience fret us. 

We go no faster than the muse will let us. 
We said before, we do not want a hero, 

(But that's a name 'bout which men disagree; 
Some style those such, who, like the wicked Pharoah, 

Pursue their enemies by land and sea; 
Or, if he wish a bloodier, pick on Nero, 

Than whom a bloodier surely could not be.) 
But heroes of this kind we don't delight in, 

The reason's plain, we are not fond of fighting. 
But there are heroes suited to our mind, 

And every hour might supply a new one; 
But 'twould be long ere we should chance to find 

A hero like our ancient friend, Don Juan. 
If to supply us such fate were inclin'd, 

The attempt to write him would be worse than ruin. 
And now, kind reader, you've the "rem compleium,''^ 

I want no hero, but a pen to treat him. 
For fear we should not treat one hero rightly. 

We'll choose a dozen, so have many chances; .^ 
And those who wish to treat our rhymes politely, -'' ■. 

May choose the one that pleases best their fancies. 
To serve such, we will toil by day and nightly; 

We hope to write about a dozen stanzas 
In every canto, (if we do write any.) 

How many cantos? The Lord knows how many. 
"Why do you write?" perhaps some one would ask; 

"Perchance you wish to gain a little praise. 
Beneath the muses' beam you hope to bask, 

And vainly strive to wear Apollo's bays." 
Remember, friends, we write behind a mask, 

And "thereby hangs a tale," as Shakspeare says; 
No, 'tis because all clergymen will tell us, 

The devil keeps his eye on idle fellows. 
Beside, the question was impertinent. 

We almost wish we had no answer made, 
7 



50 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Because we might afford encouragement 

For you, to make such cavilling a trade. 
If you have any more to ask, we're bent 

To not return an answer; for no babe 
Should be allowed to cut its teeth on gold. 

Or 'twill prove avaricious when grown old. 
One thing is true, (and many more, no doubt,) 

We might employ our time and paper better; 
The printer could do very well without 

Becoming, for this rhyme, our humble debtor. 
Perhaps some one may wonder, (perhaps not,) 

And many more refuse to read one letter. 
'Well, do you wish now to withhold it?" No, sir, 

'Twill fiirnish wrapping paper for some grocer. 
Well, reader, now farewell, perhaps forever, 

Methinks you say, "I do not care how long." 
Reflect, perhaps you may no more — no, never. 

Enjoy the thrilling powers of my song. 
Perchance, you may irrevocably sever 

The chain that binds my muse, now not too strong. 
"Well, but in truth you don't intend to strike it." 

We answer, gentle reader, "as you like it." 



TBK END. 



